Addiction
by Spazzkitty
Summary: But he knows deep down that it’s not the heroism entirely, not that noble feeling of protecting the weak. He does it because he’s become addicted to the feel of a gun in his hand. Some UsUk. WARNING: Character suicide. For Apollo-chan.


This little angsty angsty one-shot of angst was brought to you by the letter A! For Angst, Addiction (The title, obviously), Anthems (That'll make sense at the end), and for my much-beloved Apollo-chan, who not only inspired this, but encouraged me to post it here! Plus, she's kinda my wife. Looooong story. Anyway, I don't own Hetalia, and I hope you like your daily dose of depression, courtesy of the only author who hacks up hairballs, Spazzkitty! =D

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Addiction

The United States of America has always been a country of wars. Many countries were war-oriented, but it is really all America has even known. He was founded as a nation on war, endured civil wars, bombings, both world wars, the Vietnam war, the Korean war, the Iraq war. He has severely bombed countries he called 'friends', ignored cries for help from people so close to him they were like brothers, and rebelled against and betrayed the only person he has or will ever love. It has made him strong.

"It's heroism," he says, his blue eyes shining, that trademark grin of his slapped on his face. Nobody can tell that his smile is forced, that his eyes sparkle not with glee but with sadness. "I protect the weak, fight for those who can't defend themselves. It's what I do." He's repeated it so many times that he almost believes it himself. Almost.

But he knows deep down that it's not the heroism entirely, not that noble feeling of protecting the weak. He does it because he's become addicted to the feel of a gun in his hand. The way the weapon fits seamlessly into his hand, like it was crafted for him and him alone. The gentle 'click' that signifies a reload, a continuation of his dance with death. The ear-shattering bang of the bullet shooting out on it's way to a victim, with their life and death out of America's hands and all up to chance. It's like poetry.

He loves the feeling, invites it, even as he knows how the burden of a gun affects him. He's losing weight, his face becoming slowly more gaunt, his eyes the only things that still look vibrant in his exhausted appearance. "The weight loss looks good on you," England remarks somewhat snidely, and America can tell how worried he is.

"Really? Thanks," he says, summoning up a beaten version of the once-cocky grin. England winces guiltily, but America doesn't see it. His right hand is jotting down notes on a blank sheet of paper and his left hand, purposeless, drifts down to the revolver he has in a holster hanging on his left. He runs his trembling fingers along the barrel of his gun, smiling a shaky grin that doesn't touch his eyes. England has been talking to him for a little while and he hasn't even been paying attention.

"-bout you, America."

"What?"

"Bloody hell," England mutters, running a hand through his hair. "I said I'm worried about you."

"Why?" he asks. He seems capable of only one-word questions as answers.

"What do you mean, why?" England snarls. "Just look at yourself! Look at what this stupid war's doing to y-"

"Stop!" America cries out suddenly. In his previously dead-looking blue eyes is a spark of frenzied desperation, and England suddenly realizes that he can't say the words out loud, that they would cement a reality the other nation doesn't want to face. There's a silence, an awkward one, in which America doesn't meet England's eyes. Then he speaks and England has to strain to catch the words.

"They're putting more troops in Iran," America says in a whisper. His voice sounds childish and vulnerable with an undercurrent of fear, and England is reminded of those days when America was just his innocent, beloved little colony. This image only breaks England's heart further.

"America…tell them no. Tell them to bring everyone home. Show them what they're doing to you!"

"I can't," America says softly.

"But-"

"I can't," he repeats, putting more strength in the words. His hand again drifts to the gun on his left hip. England droops, looking as desperate as America is, and his green eyes look a little misty. America can't help but try to comfort him. "I'll survive it, England. I can make it. I _am_ the hero after all, right?" The words ring with falsehood that doesn't sound convincing, even to America. They seem to spur new determination in England.

"Please, America…After 1776, I thought I'd lost you for good. I thought you weren't coming back to me, to anyone. For the love of God, Alfred, don't do that to me again." America pauses and a look of pain flickers across his face at the use of his human name, his _real_ name. But Alfred F. Jones, enthusiastic, vibrant nineteen-year-old is gone now. All that's left is America, the war-torn nation getting frailer by the day.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. England's eyes fill with tears and he scrapes his chair back, hurrying out of the room as salty water begins to trickle down his cheeks. America half-rises as if to follow him before sinking back into his chair again. The Allied Conference ended ten minutes ago and he is the only one still seated at the table in the deserted room. The addiction really does rule him, doesn't it? He comes to the resolution with a bitter, disgusted taste on his tongue.

If only there were a way to beat the need he feels, the pure desire-wait. There is. He pulls his gun from his side, tossing it idly from hand to hand, singing words he doesn't even realize are spilling from his lips: "Oh say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave…"

A small smile quirks his lips as he raises the gun to his forehead. He cocks the pistol and squeezes the trigger. There is a loud bang, then a dull resounding thud.

_O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?_


End file.
